Mr. Bathurst Again Samples the Bookcase
Peter whistled. “You seem pretty sure of it. But all the same——”
Anthony interrupted him a trifle impatiently. “Those little mud
pellets and small stones told me an unmistakable story. It seemed to
me a most important factor in the case—remember no weapon was found
near the body. It was obvious that Stewart had been struck from
behind—I immediately deduced a sharp and heavy piece of stone. But if
it hadn’t been for the proximity of the ink-bowl to the dead man’s
head, the true significance would probably have escaped me. For the
wound on the head was clean—I inquired of the doctor through Goodall.
The murderer held the piece of stone by the ‘neck’ end—soil side
uppermost—and struck Stewart with the comparatively clean part, and
the force of the blows caused the small stones underneath (as they lay
originally) to be dislodged.” He held out the weapon to Daventry. “Of
course the water in the pool has cleaned it, but I daresay a thorough
and scientific examination may yield us some little evidences to
support my theory. Time will tell—we’ll take it back to the library
and hand it over to Goodall upon his return from London, as a
souvenir.” He turned to Peter. “But not a word till I say when.”
Back in the library, Anthony got to work again very quickly. “Stay
here a moment, Daventry,” he said, “while I have a word with young
Stewart—I won’t keep you waiting long—put this in a safe place”—he
handed over the recent discovery. A matter of ten minutes saw him
back, and then Peter was destined to receive yet another surprise.
“Get that revolver of yours, will you, Daventry—I told you to bring
one down here with you, didn’t I?”
“It’s upstairs in my bedroom—I shall have to go to get it.”
“Do—and load it—in all six chambers—I suppose you haven’t brought any
‘blanks’?”
Peter shook his head. “Sorry—I haven’t!”
“H’m,” muttered Anthony, “never mind. We shall have to take
care—that’s all!”
It was the work of a few moments that brought Peter back to the
library with his revolver.
“Now listen,” directed Anthony, “I want you to fire two separate
shots—you’ll have to fire of course out into the garden—fire in the
direction of the fountain, for instance—that will do—make sure there’s
nobody about—stand in the center of the room when you fire.”
He walked to the library door.
“Where are you going?” questioned Peter. “Aren’t you going to stop to
enjoy the performance?”
“I’m going to shut this door, which I want you to _keep_ shut—then I’m
going upstairs to my own bedroom—look at your watch—in five minutes’
time fire one shot—then wait till you hear from me—clear on
everything?”
“Right‑o,” murmured Peter. “I understand perfectly.”
Anthony closed the door. Peter watched the hand of his watch travel
the five appointed minutes. Then he walked to the French doors and
opened them. The coast was clear—the walk to the rockery entirely
deserted. He returned to the center of the room as he had been
directed and pulled the trigger. Then he grinned to himself. “Expect
the inhabitants of Assynton Lodge that hear that will be scared stiff
unless old Bathurst tipped them the bright idea just now.” The door
opened behind him.
“Well?” said Bathurst.
“Well?” said Peter.
“I lay on my bed just as I should if I were there in the ordinary way,
and although I was _listening_, old son, _I never heard a sound_.” His
face showed obvious signs of pleasure.
“What makes you so pleased about that?” queried Peter.
“What makes me pleased?” echoed Anthony. “Why, it fits in with my
theory beautifully—that’s what pleases me. Now I’m going again—wait
another five minutes and then fire a second shot exactly similar to
the previous one.”
He slipped out again noiselessly. Peter waited patiently for the
second spell of five minutes to pass. Taking care again that all was
in order in the garden, he walked back to the center of the library as
before and for the second time discharged his revolver. “Where did
that one go to?” he murmured reminiscently—then sat on the table till
the arrival of Bathurst.
“Just the same as before,” announced the latter. “I took the liberty
of using Charles Stewart’s bedroom for that little experiment—it’s on
the floor below ours, you know—I asked him if I might just now—and
once again, Daventry, _I heard nothing at all_.” He thrust his hands
into his pockets and walked to the bookcase. “That experiment that we
have just conducted,” he continued, “proves to me conclusively that
the shot that we know had _at some time_ been fired from Stewart’s
revolver _had been fired by him on the night of the murder_, but
why—why?” He paced backwards and forwards three or four times.
“Perhaps the shot was fired by the murderer after Stewart was dead,”
volunteered Peter.
“Why?” demanded Anthony immediately. “Why should the murderer fire a
shot that for all he knew might awaken the whole house?”
“Well—as a blind,” supplemented Peter somewhat feebly.
“Don’t think so—it doesn’t fit,” said Anthony, in summary dismissal of
the theory. “The shot is fired,” reflected Anthony, “by Stewart, who
has—according to his dress at the moment—come down to the library from
his bedroom in a hurry—why does he fire—he doesn’t seem to have been
attacked _then_, but afterwards—as you said earlier, the treachery and
the attack appear to come from inside his own ménage and yet he
_fires_—why?” His eyes wandered round the room—intent and purposeful.
“Also, my dear Daventry, if he fires, as I’m out to assert that he
_did_—where’s the bullet—eh—tell me that?” He stood with his left hand
caressing his chin. “Supposing he didn’t know—supposing he wasn’t
sure—that’s certainly an idea—that would account for the pocketing of
his revolver _subsequently_—a feeling of safety—of security that came
to him—false as it eventually turned out to be—but yet conveyed to him
temporarily by the conditions.” He came across to Peter full of this
latest piece of theorizing. “Look here, Daventry—let’s remember what
Colonel Leach-Fletcher told us. He was Stewart’s friend—his evidence
should be reliable. He was insistent that Stewart was worried about
something that was going on in his house. The word that Stewart used,
according to the Colonel, imputed _treachery_ on the part of somebody
here! Now do you remember what the Colonel went on to say? He stated
that in his opinion Stewart had come to a decision ‘to take the bull
by the horns’ in an attempt to put a stop to whatever was happening.
Remember that?”
Peter agreed. “Yes.”
“Well now,” continued Anthony, “let’s assume that Stewart was
thoroughly on the _qui vive_ that night, and succeeded in identifying
this disturber of his peace. He comes hurriedly downstairs—armed—ready
to defend himself if necessary—prepared to see the thing through to
the bitter end—as he comes down”—he swung round on to Peter in violent
enthusiasm—“I deserve to be kicked, Daventry, I’ve been painfully slow
to appreciate what actually happened—but I think I’m clear now. Go and
stand at the door, will you—just where you would be if you had just
opened it and entered.” Peter stared wonderingly but obeyed him.
Anthony went to the side of the bookcase and faced the opening door.
“This is where the murderer stood,” he declared gravely, “when Stewart
opened the door. He came here from that chair.” He indicated the chair
by the desk—the chair in which the dead man had been discovered.
“How do you know that?” demanded Peter.
“Never mind for the time being—but if you look carefully at where I’m
standing—you’ll be able to see for yourself.” Peter looked—but saw
nothing to solve his own difficulty. He shook his head, as though to
give point to his failure to grasp Anthony’s idea. The next words the
latter spoke rather startled him. “Stewart stood where you are
standing and fired in the direction of where I am standing—then
something happened that caused him to put his revolver back in the
pocket of his dressing-gown—the left-hand pocket, remember—and to take
a rather changed view of the situation in which he found himself.”
“What was that?” demanded Peter.
“_He recognized the interloper—the interloper who afterwards murdered
him._”
“Why then,” countered Peter instantly, “didn’t he recognize him at
first—before he fired the shot? You either know or don’t know a
person—it isn’t as though Stewart fired from a distance—you say
yourself that he fired from the doorway only a few feet away—when he
entered the room—the fact that he _did_ fire in that way seems to me
to show conclusively that he _didn’t_ know the person—that he fired at
a stranger. You don’t blaze away with a revolver at anybody you happen
to see—regardless of consequences.” He lit a cigarette with the air of
a man that defies contradiction.
“An excellent piece of reasoning on your part,” smiled Anthony, “but
there’s one little possibility that I fear you may have been tempted
to overlook.”
“What’s that?” retorted Peter.
“I’m not blaming you, my dear chap. I overlooked it myself in the
first place; _supposing the conditions changed_.”
Peter wrinkled his brow. “Conditions,” he said, in a puzzled kind of
way, “what conditions do you mean?”
“The conditions of the room!” Anthony watched Peter’s mystified
expression. “As I said just now, Daventry, I was slow myself to pick
up the crucial point. When Stewart fired his shot—he fired _in the
dark_. When the intruder disclosed his identity, Stewart put his
revolver away—he felt safe. So safe that he put it away in his
left-hand pocket—a right-handed man doesn’t do that if he wants to use
it again. And unhappily, events proved that his faith in the situation
brought about his death—that was why I told you to look where I was
standing.”
He pointed to the wall to the right of the bookcase directly facing
the doorway. Peter’s eyes followed the direction of his finger.
“The electric light switch?” he queried.
“That’s what I think,” exclaimed Anthony. “It seems to me that whoever
was in here heard Stewart coming down from his bedroom and just had
time to get over there and switch off the light. Stewart probably
challenged from the doorway, and either at some movement on the part
of the intruder or out of intense anxiety—he had been worrying, you
know—he fired. Then I suggest that the burglar disclosed his identity
deliberately to safeguard his own skin or that something happened that
caused Stewart to discover it. That’s the reason, Daventry, why I say
that we ought to find a bullet somewhere in here.”
Peter grunted. “Might be in the burglar’s body for all you know!”
“A thousand to one against that,” returned Anthony, as he came to the
middle of the room. “It should be somewhere in the vicinity of that
electric light switch,” he asserted. “The intruder would be standing
there when Stewart fired.”
But the wall was untouched—not a vestige of a scratch upon it
anywhere. His eyes traveled to the bookcase. “What about the bookcase,
Daventry?”
“It’s sectional,” replied Peter, “and every section is protected by a
glass shutter—no bullet can possibly have touched any of them—look for
yourself—they’re all sound.” He motioned towards them with his hand.
“Quite true,” said Anthony. “Then where the devil”—he paused for a
second; “supposing one of the glass fronts was up—eh—what then?”
“Then the bullet would hit the back of one of the books, of course.”
“Supposing there were blank spaces—where books were missing from their
places on the shelves?”
Peter scratched his chin. “Then the bullet would go through the back
of the bookcase—but it’s tremendous odds on a shot fired like this one
was finding such a space as you describe—it would border on the
miraculous.”
Anthony nodded in acquiescence. “I agree.” Then he broke out again.
“Damn it all, Daventry, I’m certain I’m right in my conclusion—that
bullet must be somewhere about. Take down the books on the top
shelves—that’s the nearest height, I should say, to where Stewart
would have fired—and start with the top shelf nearest to the switch.”
Peter somewhat reluctantly moved about three dozen volumes, tossing
each one on to the floor as he did so. The woodwork at the back of the
shelf was clean and unimpaired—no bullet had torn its destructive way
through there. “Nothing here,” he declared over his shoulder to
Anthony. But the latter was studying the books that Peter had just
moved. One in particular seemed to be affording him particular
interest. It was the thickest and bulkiest of them all.
“Come here, Daventry, will you?” said Anthony. Peter strolled across.
Anthony pointed to a hole neatly drilled in the back of the cover. He
opened the book at a page near the beginning. “There’s our
bullet—embedded in this book. The thickness of the paper and the size
of the book—848 pages to be exact—were sufficient to arrest its
further progress—it was the only possible solution that remained to
us.”
Peter Daventry gasped! “By Jove,” he muttered, “who’d have thought
it?”
“Also, my dear Daventry,” remarked Mr. Bathurst, “let me call your
attention to the title—‘The Memoirs of Réné de St. Maure—one-time Page
to Mary Stuart.’ Altogether a most fascinating work, I should
imagine.”